CHAPTER 629: 629

At this moment, five sixth-tier mages gathered in a chamber that seemed to hum with quiet energy. Before them floated what at first glance appeared to be a cluster of glowing orbs, but a closer look revealed them to be planets, each marked and cataloged by these mages over the course of their long journeys.

Their attention was drawn to one orb in particular, its light extinguished. Silence fell, thick and oppressive.

One of the mages reached forward, hand hovering over the dead world. With a practiced motion, he grasped it, feeling the absence of warmth, gravity, and energy that had once defined it. A subtle shiver ran through the room, as if the vessel itself recognized the significance of this void.

The orb expanded before them, revealing the planet in full, accompanied by a stream of data flowing alongside it. Charts, records, and the results of countless experiments appeared in the air, giving the mages a complete view of the world’s history and its failures.

Yet none of them flinched, nor did they look saddened. Failure was something they were accustomed to. Worlds rose and fell under their scrutiny; civilizations crumbled and experiments ended in ashes.

But this planet drew their attention. Two figures within it stood out among the ruins, marked by the streams of information that highlighted their presence.

"Kairos and Vellok," one mage murmured, eyes narrowing as the other scanned the data. Their focus lingered mostly on Vellok.

A sudden awareness swept the group: one of the mages, the one who had carried out the experiment on Vellok, was missing.

Envy and resentment twisted their expressions. This absent mage, he who had found a path to progress further than any of them was no longer among them at this current moment because of his accomplishments. Because of this, they were once again reminded of their own stagnation.

"What went wrong with this world?" one of the mages finally asked, addressing the ship itself.

The vessel was silent. Then a single response came, slow and deliberate "The Abyss... and Origin Gods."

A shiver ran through the mages at the words. The mention of those names carried a weight, a history of destruction and absolute divinity.

"It escaped... and it is not fallen."

The mages collectively exhaled, a mixture of irritation and resignation. One of them waved a hand, and a table materialized, complete with a large, pristine wine bottle and crystal glasses. Each mage poured themselves a glass, the clinking of crystal a strange punctuation to the dread in the chamber.

Now, all they could do was wait.

"How sad for Theron," one of the mages murmured, their gaze drifting elsewhere along the vessel. "He finally found his path."

Their eyes fell upon him somwhere in the vessel. Theron the very mage who had captured an angel and sealed it inside Vellok floated in the air, cocooned by wings that wrapped around him like a protective shell. His body, once marked by age and toil, now appeared youthful, suspended in a state of slumber. He looked serene, untouched by the struggles of the world below, yet the aura surrounding him hummed with untapped power.

Then, as if drawn by unseen authority, a hand appeared, vast beyond comprehension larger than the vessel itself. The mages, all watching, raised their wine glasses in silent acknowledgment before downing them in unison, a ritual marking the arrival of forces greater than themselves.

The hand moved with precision. It destroyed nothing as it passed through the ship, leaving halls, walls, and experiments untouched. Its sole purpose was singular: Theron.

The giant hand grasped him. The cocoon of wings collapsed slightly as Theron’s eyes snapped open. Confusion and panic surged through him. He found himself surrounded by titanic pillars, impossibly massive, stretching beyond sight.

Rising higher, he caught a glimpse of the vessel below and the other mages, standing in ritual formation with wine cups in hand, their gazes fixed upon him. Theron recognized the custom at once: a gesture of acknowledgment, reserved only for the rarest of moments when a mage’s ascent or failure was witnessed in full.

Panic overtook him. He slammed his fists against the surrounding pillars, flailing desperately, his voice cracking with fear and pleading:

"No! No! No!!! Please! Just give me one century! One century, and our civilization will gain yet another seventh-tier figure!"

The hand did not relent. It held him firm, unwavering, indifferent to his pleas. The mages below remained silent, their ritual complete, observing without interference.

Theron’s cries echoed through the void-like space, swallowed by the enormity of the pillars, the hand, and the judgment looming over him. In that moment, he understood: he was no longer in control. His path, no matter how brilliant, had already been assessed and the verdict had been rendered.

A single voice, impossibly deep and resonant, responded to him:

"This is where your path ends. Your actions will be erased from our history but your path will be preserved, for any young, brave soul who dares to thread it. Our civilization must endure for your path to carry forward."

With that, the hand, and Theron within it, vanished from this universe entirely.

Back in the previous world, the figure’s gaze lingered on his hand for a moment, noting the struggling mage still suspended within it. He said nothing. Calmly, he closed the door.

Then he knocked again.

Another long silence followed. Finally, the lock turned with a slow click, and the door swung open once more. What greeted him this time was unmistakable: a gate, gleaming faintly, flanked by cherubs whose faces were serene and unreadable.

The figure extended his hand, making a precise throwing gesture. Theron was hurled through the threshold, landing just before the gate. His wings folded awkwardly around him, and his young, exhausted form hit the ground with a thud.

The figure’s eyes darkened with unease, sensing something approaching, a force unfamiliar, swift, and unstoppable.

With a snap of his fingers, the door slammed shut. He fell to the ground, muscles trembling, sweat dripping from his brow.

"Hope this saves us... and buys us time," he muttered, voice low, almost to himself.

The void around him remained still for a heartbeat, then pulsed with distant, unseen motion, as if the universe itself had taken note of what had just transpired.

A Seventh-Tier being, reduced to trembling on the floor, his breath ragged and body slick with sweat, such a sight should have inspired awe or sorrow. Yet the figure only sighed. Compared to the old man who had just met his end, his current condition mattered little.

Fate mages were not mere scholars of chance. They were the compass of their civilization, the reason it still clung to existence even after centuries of atrocities, betrayals, and sins committed against countless races. Their threads of foresight had preserved the mages time and time again, navigating calamities that should have long since wiped them from the stars.

And now, one had been sacrificed, not for vengeance, not for punishment, but for survival. His end was a payment to the ledger of fate, a necessary severing of threads to keep the greater weave intact.

Meanwhile, back in the goblin universe, silence reigned within the vast, battered vessel. The gathered mages looked at one another without words, their gazes steady, cold, resigned. None were surprised by what had transpired. They had all boarded this ship knowing the contract etched into their very beings.

Every action they took was theirs alone to bear. The price of discovery, of ambition, of meddling in forbidden laws was written into the marrow of their pact. Yet there were moments when one mage’s actions grew so catastrophic, so egregious, that the balance of their entire race hung in the void.

When that happened, there could be no forgiveness. A scapegoat had to be chosen.

And the scapegoat was always one of their own.

The glasses they had raised earlier had not been a toast, it was a funeral rite, a mark of finality. The gesture was old as their exodus, passed down from mage to mage, a reminder that survival outweighed sentiment.

They stood in silence still, for there was nothing left to say.

One of the mages let out a heavy sigh "We should find a world to settle on... and live out the rest of our lives."

The others nodded in agreement, their faces thoughtful "Preferably one with civilized people," another added. "At least then we can leave something behind, a mark of our existence that won’t vanish with the void."

Yet even as they spoke, the vision of Theron’s fate lingered in their minds. The spark of ambition, the small fire that had driven them through centuries of hardship, flickered and dimmed.

The cosmos was merciless to beings such as themselves. Every step forward had to be fought for, carved from uncertainty, and claimed through tireless effort. They had learned this the hard way: no path was guaranteed, no plan absolute.

And yet, somewhere out there, there were beings who slept for a bit only to wake up surpassing all they could ever hope to achieve in a single lifetime. One step ahead, always, unconcerned with the conventions and contracts that bound others, showing how unfair the cosmos was.